


The Brave Battle

by Aachren



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cancer, Chemotherapy, DNR, Discussion of Death, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Illness, Side Effects, Surgery, chemo - Freeform, sick!John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-13
Updated: 2013-05-23
Packaged: 2017-12-11 18:27:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/801793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aachren/pseuds/Aachren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John gets cancer; it changes everything, except when it changes nothing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've lost the contact info for some of the people who beta'd this for me; if you are one of these people, please, please let me know so I can thank you properly! Thanking only powderedopium over on LJ just seems wrong. (Not that Powderedopium doesn't deserve loads of thanks and parade for helping me!)
> 
> For this prompt:
> 
> I'd like see John being diagnosed with cancer and having to go through chemotherapy, however I would like it to end happily with John going into remission. John is worried that Sherlock will not care, in fact when Sherlock finds out he refuses to take on new cases, actually asks Mycroft for assistance until John gets better (albeit grudgingly), becomes rather "snugglier" than usual, removes toxic things from their apartment, etc.
> 
> I'd love preslash S/J. It would make my day if Lestrade and Mycroft act as supportive older brothers for both John and Sherlock.
> 
> tl;dr:H/C John is diagnosed with cancer and has to go through chemotherapy, Sherlock is supportive. John does go into remission and it ends happily.

John goes straight up to his room.

How odd.

He never does that.

He is also never found lying limp across his bed over the duvet with a crumpled wad of paper in his clenching right fist and his left arm draped over his eyes. The shuddery sounds of his breath are all wrong, too.

He’s been strange for more than a month now. He fatigues easily. He doesn’t sleep well. He doesn’t eat well either.

There have been the random appointments that leave him smelling of disinfectant and iodine. Some days have John coming home from work late for no apparent reason. John hasn’t been on a date in 3 and ½ weeks.

Sherlock cannot wait any longer to puzzle it out. John has been frustratingly cryptic and unusually good at hiding what exactly may be going on.

“John?” There is more that Sherlock wants to say, but this, even to him, smacks of needing a more delicate touch. The sort of touch Sherlock is pretty sure he cannot provide. The thought of his own inadequacies causes a twinge of, well, something he hasn’t a name for, but is shoved aside because there isn’t time to think of that now.

“John?” He vacillates in the doorway, afraid to go in.

“Sherlock.” The tone is even. Flat, really.

“Something is wrong.”

The answering laugh is more of a humourless bark. “Brilliant deduction.”

Sherlock can see just enough of the print on the crumpled bit of paper in John’s hand to know it’s a lab report. The first real clue in all this mess! He needs to read it, but instead he merely says, “You’re ill.” It’s the only explanation for all of the facts.

“Very ill.” John’s face creases into a pained grimace that was clearly supposed to be a smile. Sherlock doesn’t have to see his eyes to know that their edges don’t crinkle in the way they should for a smile. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to inconvenience you with it. I just have to give Harry a ring first. I’ll be out of your hair within the week. Sorry about the rent.”  
Despite knowing that John isn’t nearly as clever as he is and only marginally more clever than other people, Sherlock doesn’t understand how John could make such an error in logic. Leaving 221B doesn’t make sense; even Sherlock’s care has to be better than a drunk’s. He just has to convince John of that. “I’m not inconvenienced by your illness.”

That was not what he intended to say.

“I know. I’ll ring Harry when I’ve got what I’m going to say down.”

His frustration makes him brusque, “No need. What do you have?” He finds his memory is sorely lacking. It gives him nothing to base a diagnosis on. This is why he needs John. John knows things he doesn’t.

“Cancer. Lymphoma. Non-Hodgkin’s. Stage 4b.” The recital ends with a resigned sigh.

Something else he doesn’t know. 

“Is there a Stage 5?” He hopes that the first thing his gut has ever known is wrong.

John’s giggle is hysterical and sharp. It hurts Sherlock’s ears. “Yeah, death.”

Sherlock’s mind whirs. Clicks. Spins. It comes up with nothing to say other than ‘how long’, but the air is trapped in his lungs and he doesn’t say it. He cannot bear thinking it. He tries to delete it.

The silence seems to clue John in. He sits up and his face takes on a soft reassuring look. “It’s not as bad as it sounds. Just a bit of self-pity. Non-Hodgkin’s is very treatable. Nice regular growth cycle, so chemo works. Works well.”

Wrong. Again.

Sherlock should be the reassuring one.

Oh, this is why John thinks he should leave.

“You don’t have to leave. You can stay here. Harry’s can’t be safe.”

John makes no response to that, but pushes himself up off the bed. “I need a cuppa and then I’ll deal with Harry. Want one?”

“No.” Sherlock, again, needs to say more but doesn’t trust his own mouth. It’s all his mind can handle to take the step backwards out of the door way to let John pass. Though, it can process that John is back to his upright, shoulders-back posture. The brave soldier is the man who walks evenly down the stairs, a different man than the one who walked up those same steps earlier.

The sounds of John turning the tap to fill the kettle and gathering mugs out of the cupboard float into the living room as Sherlock flops without his usual dramatic grace into what is now his chair. They both started off as his chairs, but he finds he cannot resent John’s claim on the one nearest the kitchen. John belongs there. Here.

The rattle of a spoon in a mug draws Sherlock’s attention back to the kitchen and, suddenly, John is back in the doorway walking to his chair. Now is the time for finding out exactly what John thinks he needs. Later, he’ll research what John will, invariably, neglect to ask for.

“Chemo works?”

A small huff of not-laughter escapes John. “Yeah, non-Hodgkin’s has a 14 day cycle, so as long as we get the right day for its mitosis phase, we just might win.”

“Might?” Damn. That was hard to say around the lump in his throat.

“Nothing’s certain in medicine. Or life for that matter. Didn’t even know I was at risk.” John lifts his hips to stick his hand down in his pocket to retrieve his phone. “I guess I can’t put this off much longer. I’m sure that it won’t get easier to say.”

Then something unexpected happens as Sherlock starts to shift out of his chair, John catches Sherlock’s eye for the first time since he tried to reassure him earlier. Sherlock doesn’t know what it means, but it pins him in his chair. He can’t leave the room as he intended because even he knows that you should give a man his privacy to break bad news to his sister.

The easing of the muscles in John’s forehead when he nods that yes, he’ll stay doesn’t make sense.

“Harry. Hey, I—“ John pauses.

“Oh, that’s great to hear. I—“

After that, it’s clear that John is just listening to a story. He smiles and nods and hums at the appropriate times, but doesn’t actually add anything. Then, it’s over.

“Hey, Harry, I’m glad we talked. I love you.” John smiles softly and Sherlock can even hear it in his voice. “Good to hear. ‘Bye.”

John drops his phone in his lap where it bounces once into the crease between his hip and the arm of the chair. A wry smile shapes John’s mouth as he says to himself and maybe a little bit to Sherlock, “Well, that went well.”

“You can stay here. Harry’s isn’t your only option.”

If he was a betting man, he’d say that Harry told John about new-found sobriety and/or a new-found girl. He doesn’t really care which, but he is going to use this to keep John where he belongs.

“Harry’s isn’t really an option at the moment, anyway. I’ll just contact the SPVA tomorrow; I’m sure they have services available or know who I should see.”

“You’re staying here. Stop ignoring the fact that you live here.” It comes out harsh and John’s forehead crinkles as his eyebrows rise in surprise.

“I can’t stay here, Sherlock.” His voice is gentle. “Having a cancer patient mucking around here will interfere with your work.”

“You’re an important part of my work.” It’s true, but it’s not really the whole truth.

“Still can’t stay. I have lymphoma.” John pauses like that’s supposed to mean something to Sherlock, but before he can figure it out, John sighs and says, “My immune system will be heavily compromised and this flat is somewhat of a biohazard on a good day.”

Oh. “Well, I could tidy in here a bit.” A quick scan and Sherlock has a plan for that dust on the mantle.

John’s tone is faintly amused. “It has to be a bit more sterile than that.”

“Hmm, what?” That amusement pulls Sherlock out of his plan to finagle Mrs Hudson into doing the actual work because cleaning is boring. He replays the conversation in his  
head and can’t remember saying anything remotely funny.

“You tricking Mrs Hudson into dusting in here won’t be enough.” John’s eye contact with him breaks off to stare at something above Sherlock’s left shoulder. “I won’t be able to eat in a kitchen with a mould spore experiment on the counter or out of a fridge with dead human bits in various stages of decomposition in it.” Now he’s looking at the floor and he seems to be shrinking with each admission. “I won’t be able to drink out of cup that may or may not have had body fluids in it last.”

Sherlock waves away John’s objections to their flat with a sweep of his right hand. “Is that all? All my experiments can be successfully run at Bart’s.”

There is a full out giggle at that. Sometimes, Sherlock thinks John does completely ridiculous things on purpose. It’s almost as if he knows that the enigma of who he really is frustrates and fascinates Sherlock. John’s voice breaks through his worry that he’s as transparent to John as everyone else is to him.

“D’you think you could handle that? And for how long? You’re like a kid with ADD. You’d forget within the first week, swipe something from Molly and haul it home.”

“You should know better than to give Lestrade’s assertion that I’m a child any weight. I’m a fully adult male who can handle it as long as it is necessary.” The tone came out sounding more wounded than Sherlock liked to hear in his own voice.

“I don’t think you’re a child. I just think you’ve had your own way too often. Besides, you hardly know what you’re trying to sign up for.”

“Because you won’t tell me.”

“Right now, the estimate is 16 rounds of a 14 day cycle of chemo and however long it takes for my immune system to recover.”

Sherlock does the math in his head. 8 months. 32 weeks. 224 days. “How long is recovery?”

John slumps back into his chair, the weight of numbers that he cannot stand to calculate press him back. “It depends on what condition I’m in when chemo starts, how well I take care of myself during, complications and what not. But it’s in the two to four months range.”

10 months. 40 weeks. 280 days. If it goes well, which it should. John’s in good condition and he’ll get the best care imaginable; Sherlock will make sure of it. “I can do that.” He knows he can.

John’s surprised. One sandy brow is up and his blue stare is focused on Sherlock in some confusion. “Yes, well, it isn’t the sort of thing you do for a flatmate, anyway.”

“You would do it for me.” How stupid does John think he is? No one as close to being a hero as John is could kill a man for a friend and then later abandon him when he was ill.

“Sorry. What?”

“You would do it for me.”

Once John really listens to what Sherlock said, it draws a grin across his mouth. “Wouldn’t have much chance of it. Your brother would sweep you away into the confines of some private hospital somewhere, with the best medical care healthcare money can buy. He'd probably get you your own private doctor. Doubt he'd let you languish on the NHS, relying on me to take care of you.”

Horrid thought. “You’re my doctor. He can’t do that.”

“I’m afraid I would think he should, Sherlock. My specialities are trauma and general remedial care. Not internal medicine or long-term care. And since when am I your doctor?!”

Sherlock leaps out of his chair to scoop up his outerwear. “Dinner at Angelo’s.” As he sweeps his coat over his shoulders and hooks his scarf around his neck, he stops to stare at John. “Now. You’ll feel better after you eat.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John has surgery. I describe it. If needles, sutures, and blood bother you, give the last half of the chapter a pass.

_The Royal Marsden, Fulham Rd. They won’t start the procedure until I have someone to make sure I get home._

John’s plan to just wander homewards in cab is ruined by the dragon-lady wearing scrubs. He glares, carefully to prevent her seeing it, out of the corner of his eye at the nurse that made him send that text and is almost glad that she’ll find Sherlock heinously annoying. Almost glad because he is a doctor and knows how badly a nurse can fuck a recalcitrant patient over.

Now, he’s nervous.

_Be nice to the nurses when you get here. Keep your deductions to yourself._

He’s pretty sure that won’t work, but it was worth the try.

_What procedure? –SH_

_You’re at a cancer clinic. I’ll be there.–SH_

There is nothing for it. This will not go well. So John does what he has always done. He walks into the situation with his eyes wide open and his head held high. “Can I get dressed for the operation? I’ve got someone coming to fetch me home.”

Even as her face never relaxes its frown, John has the notion that the fierce lizard masquerading as a nurse approves. However, he does acknowledge that the fact that she’s allowed him to keep his trousers on could be influencing his feelings on the subject.

Sherlock is there before John can even get his kit off. He’s still standing in his vest folding his shirt when Sherlock bursts into the room. He just sighs, finishes off with his shirt and says, “What did I say about reasonable boundaries?”

“That they exist and I should respect yours.” John can see Sherlock inspecting the track marks and bruises from blown veins on the inside of his elbows from all the blood and nonsense that they’ve pumped in and out of him in the last month. Those grey eyes also linger on the badly faded RAMC insignia tattoo inked high on the inside of his left forearm.

“We of the RAMC aren’t, by regulation, allowed to carry regimental honours, so some of the fellows and I got our own after we got back from Kosovo. And how is this respecting my boundaries?”

“Hmm. Clearly you were drunk at the time and chose an inferior artist. I use the term artist in its loosest sense. You asked me to come.”

“Yes, well, young and dumb.” John lets go of a tight puff of air and braces himself. His vest has to come off and there is only one way he can do it these days. “I did not ask you to stand in the room while I undress.” He grips the back of the neck of it with his right arm, pulls upwards and over his head and finally down his useless left arm.

He’s not going to fold the damned thing. It will just have to tolerate being tossed on the pile of his other things. Actually, he doesn’t know why he’s so self-conscious about unable to remove his clothes like other men; he knows that Sherlock has to have noticed that he has a severely reduced range of motion in his left arm. Now Sherlock has an unobstructed view of the scar left behind by the bullet that took with it a part of his scapula and his entire military career.

“You were in the Army and before that you had PE showers in school.”

“Doesn’t mean I enjoy being gawked at.”

Sherlock hasn’t contented himself with just the front of the scar; he’s circling John. He stops to catch John’s eye. “You’re offended.”

John slides his gaze away. “Not offended, I’m terrified.” What? No. This cannot actually be coming out of his mouth. There was some other word that would have worked just fine; a word that would have been far less vulnerable.

His shoes, they have to come off. “I’m becoming useless. I am useless.” He hasn’t even been given anything yet. Not even a valium for the nerves. That is supposed to come as a part of his sedation and they haven’t started that yet. He doesn’t even have a line in.

Socks, too, have to go. What if they need a distal pulse? Not likely today, but it never hurts to be prepared. “I became a doctor and a soldier so I could be anything but that and, now; my scar feels more like an omen of that every day.” With that remark and the resolution to just stop bloody talking, John tosses his shoes with the socks tucked inside under the chair with his clothes and runs his fingertips over the white edges of the lividly purple-centred scar.

Suddenly, he’s got a mouth full of cashmere scarf and wool coat scratching across his shoulders, arms and back. Sherlock has his arms trapped down and he can’t take a breath that isn’t swamped in the scent of Sherlock’s soap and scarf fibres. It’s disorienting until he realizes that Sherlock is, apparently, the worst hugger in the world. He tamps down laughter as he pushes out of the most awkward embrace of his life, including the one in third form with Hannah Higgenbotham, because he is not going to explain to his best friend and flatmate why his hugs are inherently hilarious.

“What was that about?”

“I was trying to comfort you if you hadn’t been so ridiculous and prevented me. I knew you wouldn’t believe me if I said you weren’t useless, so I resorted to the sorts of tactics that are employed by emotional people like you.” Sherlock says with an insulted air.

John has to laugh at that. Well, giggle, really. “I think I would feel better about that if I didn’t feel that ‘emotional people’ is some sort of slur coming out of your mouth.” John waves off whatever Sherlock is about to say. “Oh, no, don’t tell me what you really think. Just call the nurse back in. We can finish this conversation later, but I have to get this done today.”

With a dramatic sweep of his posh coat and the door, Sherlock barks at the nurse to re-enter and then turns to John to say, “When will we finish this conversation? I want to be prepared for your logic errors, because you are clearly useful.”

“A back-handed compliment. Again. You really should learn how to say truly nice things to people.”

Sherlock sniffs. “I just speak the truth. Oh, and what are you having done today?”

“How nice of you to ask. Oh, it’s just a port-cath insertion.” John flourishes the insides of his arms back into Sherlock’s view. “Chemo’s hell on the veins.”

“I noticed. I’ve seen coke addicts with far fewer marks.” John tries not to cringe about what that could possibly mean coming out of Sherlock’s mouth; that’s something that they’ve never talked about and John is not sure he even wants to know.

“Dr Watson,” says the nurse, voice prim, but carefully neutral, “I need you up on the table, so I can set your IV line.”

“Oh, yes, yes, of course.” John pushes himself up on the table and stretches back on it like someone well accustomed to it as Sherlock begins to pace. “Which arm do you want?” He twists his body to allow her to tap the veins with a practised finger. She chooses the un-bruised vein on the back of his left hand; the rest of them are passed over as ruined. Her voice is reassuring as she tells John when and where she’s about to touch him, but he ignores it. He knows the routine anyway.

Once the vein is chosen and the tourniquet is tied, setting the IV is the work of seconds. John murmurs a small sound of appreciation to the nurse. He’s had quite enough of being a practice pin cushion lately, thank you very much. The line is clamped shut and taped down in a loop; it’s too early for fluids, but not too early for baselines.

The gentle clip that measures O2 saturation glows the tip of his right fore-finger red as it takes the initial measurements. Cold, soft fingers take his pulse, 50 beats per minute, and his respirations, 16 breaths per minute. The brief squeeze and wheeze of the cuff around his bicep gives the nurse his blood pressure as 119/76. He’s disgustingly healthy.

“Sherlock, you know they’ll not let you in the OR with me, right? You’ll have to head to the waiting room.”

The look of surprise on Sherlock’s face is almost comical. “Why-ever did you call me down here, then? I had slides. Besides, I need to know all about that port-cath they’re inserting.”

“To take me home. Not my idea, by the way. They didn’t think I would be capable of making it or calling for you afterwards when I was hopped up on an opioid.”

“I was at Bart’s with slides of selenium poisoned liver. You know how rare that is.”

“The surgeon has prescribed 0.5 mg/L Midazolam in 5% dextrose for the operation,” the nurse inserts helpfully.

“Well, then, high on a benzodiazepine and don’t tell me you were at Bart’s. I may not have your exhaustive map of London in my head, but even I know that you came from home.”

“Have you learned my methods so well that you can now do it for yourself?”

“Didn’t need to. I made the trip this morning and I’ve been to Bart’s a few times.”

“I should really see its placement. I’ll need to know about it.”

“We’ll get instructions for its care later. You can handle sitting in a waiting room for 30 minutes. Think of all the people you can deduce.”

“What I do isn’t a game. I don’t do it for fun.”

“Well, while you’re not having any fun, keep your deductions to yourself. Now off you go.”

Sherlock doesn’t go. The surgeon walks in before he can flounce out, so he sulks in the corner of the room while Dr Forsythe just tells John the same things he’d said earlier in the week during their surgery consultation. Instead of actually listening, John lets his mind wander and wonders how close Sherlock came to deducing the 12 and a half years of surgery this man has done and if he’s discovered where he originally trained. He’ll have to ask afterwards because Sherlock is bound to have discovered something amusing that he missed. Suddenly, the surgeon is done talking and John hears out of his own mouth, “Ready as I’ll ever be. Let’s get this done,” and he’s being wheeled into the OR and Sherlock is being shut out.

The OR smells mostly familiar; it’s almost too clean though. He takes that as a sign that he’s worked for far too long in field hospitals where they can barely manage to keep the filth out. Part of him still misses those temporary structures, but, thankfully these days it’s only when he’s not chasing after Sherlock and his ‘clever members of the criminal classes’. The tedious days of doing locum work are another story.

The nurse who hooks up his IV catheter to his drip is quick, but the midazolam is even faster. He can feel his anxiety about Sherlock’s waiting room behaviour begin to slip from him. Granted, the medication is really supposed to make him amnesic and relaxed about the procedure, but he’ll take what he can get.

Once his surgical isolation paper is taped down and they deem him properly sedated, John turns his head towards the screens to his left. He thinks he’ll never get used to this side of surgery, despite the reconstructive surgeries he had on his shoulder the first few months back from Afghanistan, but he still likes to watch. One screen, the upper, is currently off, but John figures that just means it’s for the fluoroscope used to set the catheter tube from the port to his vena cava.

The bottom one is the one he’s interested in and is clearly of his iodined and shaved chest prepared for surgery. John’s port-cath and Dr Forsythe’s skills are being recorded so they can be part of a training video for the hospital. He signed the release last week, but he’ll never tell anyone that he jumped on the chance to still feel like a part of medicine.

On the screen, John sees hands making two incision marks. One is short and just under his clavicle and the long one is 2 ½ inches lower on the pectoral muscle. The marker tickles as the hands mark around the device to delineate the pouch that should hold the port-cath chambers. He doesn’t giggle as the meds make him feel like he can’t be arsed to.

The lidocaine injections along the incision lines burn cold. The scalpel just feels like that same odd sensation of pressure as when John runs his hand over his lips when he’s drunk. That thought almost makes him giggle.

Once the scalpel is through the layers of skin, the surgeon uses his latexed index finger to open up the area between the muscle and skin where the port-cath will reside. That pressure is different and John knows it’ll be sore tomorrow, even if it doesn’t hurt now.

The fluoroscope screen comes on; it’s a confusing jumble of images then suddenly it’s of the smaller incision mark on his chest. Sure hands and a scalpel open it up and the fluoroscope lens goes in. John and his surgeon can see some of what John is made of as it passes to the catheter’s final destination. It’s reassuring to see that he’s still made of muscle and blood and connective tissue; lately, he’s been half convinced he’s made of broken plans bound together with disappointment.

Once the catheter is inserted into his vena cava, the surgeon pulls the supporting tubing that kept the catheter stiff enough for the operation back out, but leaving it on the exposed portion that will transverse across his chest under the skin to the port. That extra bit of tubing is swiftly inserted between the tiny incision and the port incision and it’s a snap for the surgeon to trim the catheter and attach it permanently into the opening in the port.

It’s time for Dr Forsythe to close John up. A butterfly closure holds the small incision. The port incision is a bit more work. The surgeon works the port into the pouch he made for it and sets the device in place with a few stitches of Prolene. Nylon sutures at precisely 1 cm apart close the incision and John is impressed by the exact evenness, at least, until he remembers that he was used to surface suturing in a combat zone.

It’s a quick trip to Radiation to confirm with an x-ray that the catheter is correctly placed and then John is in Recovery with a pinch-faced Sherlock standing over him. “What trouble did you cause?”

Sherlock’s face shifts into something rather irritated and he says, “I caused no trouble. I never do.”

John can’t even begin to think of a safe way to comment on that, so he just raises his eyebrows in exasperation and disbelief. “Hand me my clothes. I want to go home as soon as we’re done with paperwork and instructions.”

Sherlock stands too close as he hands John’s clothes over and John feels even more exposed than usual. That damn scar and the new marks on his chest need to be covered, but there is no way that John can get his vest over his head at the moment, so he’s left to pull on his shirt without it. The button placket against his skin feels strange after years of wearing a vest under his PCS CU jacket, but the ugly truth is: this will be how he’ll have to dress until this is all over.

Damn cancer.

Damn chemo and damn this port.


	3. Chapter 3

_I need a car at the Royal Marsden in three quarters of an hour. The Granard House entrance. –SH_

He’s not going to tell the fading young woman wrapped in an over-large, repugnantly brown, but undoubtedly warm jumper that her husband isn’t waiting until she’s gone to move on.

_You do not have a medical appointment today. –M_

He’s not going to tell the middle-aged man who has no one else in the waiting room that his doctor, young and inexperienced, is looking for someone to hold his hand as he breaks the bad news.

_I never said I did. Your network must be failing. –SH_

He’s not going to tell the worn young couple with the baby in their arms that the news is good. He figures John would tell him that even good news should come from the right people.

The delay in response makes it more difficult to obey John. Flipping up his collar and hunkering down inside his coat to use it as blinders doesn’t help much. Good Lord, he's been reduced to comparing himself to a skittish horse. At least, he is until his phone rings off at him again.

_John has an appointment. Surgery, in fact. –M_

Finally. Apparently, even being the British government has its limitations.

_Impressive. Do you have our NHS records linked to your desktop or did you actually have to talk to someone and impress upon them your importance to retrieve the information? –SH_

A little bit of snarky tit for tat with his brother should be enough to distract him from the damp-eyed weeper next to him. John always frowns at him, disappointed, when he makes people cry. He also refuses to believe that it is ever unintentional, which means he is usually right. Not that he ever gets much confirmation on that from Sherlock.

_Does it matter? When will John be moving to his sister’s? –M_

John should be glad he has only his sister. Brothers are more trouble than their worth.

_He’s not. Why does everyone assume that? –SH_ It is a ridiculous notion after all. _You, my dear brother, are not the nurturing type. –M_

Of course, he isn’t and not very fond of this caring lark. However, the doubt is irritating. He’s a genius and very capable of managing to learn a new skill.

_I do what is necessary. John is necessary. –SH_

_Should I point out the innuendo there? –M_

How puerile Mycroft can be.

_You just did. Will the car be there or not? –SH_

This game has lost all savour. Sherlock just needs to know that he can get John safely home.

_Of course. I want to watch this play out. –M_

He doesn’t have to think very hard to read between Mycroft’s lines. Sherlock has no intention of failing for his brother’s amusement; he owes John too much to not manage it.

_Just send the car and the driver. None of your other lackeys are needed. –SH_

The car pulls up immediately for them, clearly having been waiting patiently around the corner, as they walk slowly out of doors. Slowly, due to John’s system still processing the anti-anxiety drugs they pumped into him. Sherlock is afraid that he’ll have to credit the drugs with allowing him to bypass John’s usual tendency to walk around the cab and usher John into the side nearest the walkway instead. Habits that ingrained are hard to trip up, especially in the case of a man as steady as John.

Now, they’re settled into the seats comfortably and John is firmly strapped down in his belt. A captive and docile John is the best John to have this discussion with. He’s unlikely to believe anything Sherlock says about him otherwise.

“John, you, yourself, said that you are a part, an important part of my work.”

First, the slow blinking to indicate John thinks he misunderstood something Sherlock said. “What?” Second, the turn and tilt of his body to indicate that his whole attention has reverted to where it belongs, on Sherlock. “Sorry.”

“You said I get all of my cases due to your inane blog.” That still rankles a bit. Why does it seem that no one cares for the logic or the science of what he does? “That’s important to me.” Very true, despite the fact that it makes no sense.

John’s face creases back in a pleasant way as he says, “You really should learn to resist insulting me at every turn and I’ve noticed.”

“Noticed? Are you finally learning my methods?” Now, that is a nice thought and just to reinforce it for John what exactly he has been doing every time he explains himself to John, he says, “I do keep trying to teach you.”

“Is that what you’ve been doing when I thought you were just showing off?” John shakes his head and Sherlock is pretty sure he sees a very small roll of John’s eyes. “No, you’re just far more tolerable as a flatmate when you’ve a case.”

“Tolerable? I’m not the one always leaving the milk out to spoil.” Ridiculous man, always going on about the milk and ruining it within days all by himself. “Do you talk to your other friends like that?”

“No.” John huffs out softly. “Just the mad detective one.”

Oh, that does sound like good news, with clarification. “I’m not mad.” He’s not; sociopathy isn’t classified as such. “I’m a genius, which might look like madness to the uninitiated.”

“And I’m among the initiated?”

Sherlock ignores the amusement in John’s tone in favour of being pleased with John for following along with the thread of what Sherlock intends to say. “Of course, you have regular contact with me.”

“Who wants a baptism by fire when you can just have contact with genius?”

A baptism by fire? What on earth is John on about? Baptism, by its very definition, involves immersion in water. “I am a genius.”

“So you’ve said, just a dozen or so times this week.” He is not that redundant. “I’m dedicated to the truth. People seem to need to hear it often.” Even if he is; he is pretty sure that it isn’t his fault.

“Did you just make a joke?” John’s hand is on the door handle; they’ve just arrived, but he seems to know that this conversation isn’t quite over.

“Joking is what people do.” Just because the conversation isn’t over doesn’t mean Sherlock knows what he’s supposed to say.

“You aren’t people.”

Sherlock knows that he’s very different and very special, but somehow that doesn’t seem like a compliment from John. “Stick to deducing and stealing body parts from Bart’s.”

“No more parts until you’re well. I said I would do it and I will.” Once more he has to reassure John that he is actually capable of this.

“Hmm. Forgot about that.” John says as he puts his hand to the car door and opens it. Clearly, he wants the conversation done.

“How? I keep saying it.” He has and it’s frustrating, but John seems bound and determined to believe him incapable of handling cancer. “I know I said it at least once when you were in the room because I remember you responding.” The last part he practically shouts at John’s back sliding out of the car.

There, John stops and turns around. His set face is a blank as he takes a moment to stare at Sherlock. “No, I forgot that I wasn’t exactly well.”

What? Sherlock takes a minute to think about that comment and even his intellect has difficulty explaining that. “You forgot you aren’t well?”

The only answer is a sigh, a ‘Yes,’ and a John Watson walking around the car.

“How did you delete that so quickly?” Impressive considering that fact that John has always seemed to be so disdainful and disbelieving of Sherlock’s methods in memory storage. “You were on an OR table half an hour ago.” Sherlock says to John’s back as he gets out of his own side of the cab.

“Trying not to think about it.” John is refusing to look at Sherlock and is determinedly sticking his key into the door of 221.

“Trying not to think about it?” Then what is John thinking about? He’s too quiet and his shoulders are too set for John to be doing anything other than thinking. “Why?”

John doesn’t have to avoid Sherlock’s searching stare for long; Mrs Hudson swings the door in and away from John’s hand. “Mrs Hudson!” is a bad attempt at concealing his suddenly unsupported sway, but Sherlock is sure that their landlady is kindly ignoring what she thinks is John’s war wound.

At least, that’s what he thinks the meaning of the cheery way Mrs Hudson says, “Boys! There you are. Where have you been?”

Sherlock is also sure that Mrs Hudson doesn’t think too hard about John’s relatively cryptic, “Out.” She hustles them both into the building and gets to the point, “That nice detective inspector is here. I talked him into a cup of tea because I knew you’d not be long. You boys never are when you haven’t been out on a—”

In an uncharacteristic act of rudeness, John interrupts Mrs Hudson to turn to Sherlock to say, “I wonder what sort of case he has for you to wrap your mind around.”

“Nothing interesting enough.” What is interesting is Mrs Hudson’s general lack of response to the inconsideration, a testament of Sherlock’s usual manner, and the ways tiredness and pain are drawing lines across John’s face. The subtleness is amazing. The overall shape of his face is the same, but the slight deepening of the parenthesis around that sensitive, emotive mouth is practically screaming at Sherlock.

The fact that he’s staring sidelong at John as they mount the stairs is the only reason Sherlock knows John is talking. First, John repeats back, in a careful deadpan, “Nothing interesting enough.” And then he asks, in an amused tone, “You’re back to rating cases on a one to ten scale?” The amusement irritates Sherlock. He just can’t figure out why.

“Nothing of the sort. I never stopped. It’s a very efficient system.” He’s positive that he already explained this to John and he refuses to repeat himself. There has been enough of that lately.

John’s face tightens into a wince and Sherlock knows that John somehow manages to believe that he’s hurt Sherlock’s feelings. Even though it’s really quite unnecessary, Sherlock nods to graciously accept “You’re an idiot” as John’s apology, that is, until John says, “What do you have for us today, Greg?”

That’s it. Tonight, he’s researching having it tattooed to his forehead, but until then Sherlock sticks to repeating himself, “He has nothing. I’m not taking cases.”

“Not taking cases?” Great, now Lestrade seems to feel he has a say. “Sherlock, taking cases, sometimes quite literally, is what you do. You know, when you’re not insulting me, the entirety of the Scotland Yard and the majority of the poor unfortunates that make your acquaintance.”

Lestrade makes it sound like Sherlock enjoys shooting fish in a barrel.

“I’m taking a sabbatical.” He’ll have a year to learn a new skill, a year to heal John.

“A sabbatical? When did you decide this and when were you going to tell me?” Sherlock is surprised at John’s shock. Doesn’t he know that he needs someone, Sherlock, around when he’s ill? “What are you going to do instead of take cases?”

John needs to rest and to not be insulted, but the thought of that doesn’t have much effect on tempering Sherlock’s irritation as he says, “We did discuss this. I said I would do this.”

“Oh. Oh.” The wealth of understanding flooding into John’s voice fills Sherlock with the hope that they can have a new conversation until John ruins everything by saying, “Oh, no. That is not acceptable. I will not have you sitting around here bored to annoy me to death.”

“Not acceptable? I have studied all possible outcomes of the situation and have come up with the best solution.”

Sherlock can practically hear the gears turning in Lestrade’s head, so it comes as no surprise when Lestrade blurts, “What situation? What solution? What is going on?”

Apparently, all the time watching Sherlock’s process isn’t enough time for Lestrade to be able to come to the conclusion that John is ill. How disappointing. “John has cancer, lymphoma to be exact.”

Lestrade ignores John’s attempt at scolding Sherlock to ask him directly, “Lymphoma? Will you be alright?” Sherlock knows that Lestrade only asked because he genuinely wants to know, but he doesn’t seem to want the answer just this moment. He’s managed to pace from the seat he’d taken at the table near the window to the kitchen and back again, all without looking at John. “Christ. Cancer.”

“What’s this? Cancer? Who has cancer?” Mrs Hudson bustles in with a tray of food no one trusts Sherlock to not contaminate. As she sets the tray on the table and hands John a cup, she says, “My husband, his cousin had it. Didn’t end well, I’m afraid.”

Sherlock does not care for the way the muscles in John’s face slacken or the way his skin pales.

“John has lymphoma, Mrs Hudson. He tells me it should end well.”

The sound of Mrs Hudson’s wounded coos at John are almost covered over by John’s near shout, “Sherlock! Don’t tell all and sundry, especially when not even Harry knows.” Yes, he was here for that aborted phone call. “My sister doesn’t know!”

There can only be one explanation.

“You can’t keep it a secret. People are going to find out.”

“It does help that you tell them and, no, it is not a secret, but I would like some control over my own life.” The way that Lestrade focuses on Mrs Hudson’s comfort and not on Sherlock and John is very revealing. He does that every time he agrees with John, but won’t interfere because he believes it to be counter-productive. “No one is controlling you.”

The steady way John catches his gaze tells Sherlock that he’s not dignifying that with a response and he says, “Besides, it’s just wrong, no offence, that Mrs Hudson and Lestrade know before Harry does.”

“And Mycroft. And your oncologist.” When in doubt, be as literal and truth-oriented as humanly possible.

“When did you tell your brother? Never mind, don’t tell me.” John’s shocked tone reminds Sherlock that he has been meaning to rethink that rule since they met.

He decides that it’s a thought for a later date and says, “I didn’t have to tell him. He has access to your NHS files.”

“Jesus. NHS records. Is nothing sacred?” John sounds exhausted; Sherlock really is going to have to rethink that rule, especially in conversations with John. He takes a mental note to not delete that thought. “No, no, Mrs Hudson, Greg, don’t apologize. I’m sorry. I’m just frustrated and tired. I’m sorry.”

Mrs Hudson is the first to speak, “You’re fine, dear. You just need some rest. Don’t worry about us.” She walks down to her flat after a soft pat on John’s hands and with a sad smile on her face.

“No worr—” Lestrade starts, but most of what he says is so very banal, so Sherlock cuts in with, “You should be in bed, then.”

John turns to stare at him and then sighs and says, “Greg, do me a favour and take him with you. I’m going to bed.”

John’s footsteps up to his bedroom are slow and Sherlock is dumbfounded.

Didn’t John hear anything Sherlock said?


End file.
